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18 iy ILLNESS 153

will rejoice me much, for the sound of the woods of
Rokeby is lovely in mine ear. Ever yours,

WALTER SCOTT.

TO MBS. MACLEAN CLEPHA'NE, OF TOKLOISK, MTJIiIi.

EDINBURGH, 23d March, 1817.

MY DEAR MKS. AOT> Miss CLEPHANE, — Heje comes
to let you know you had nearly seen the last sight of me,
unless I had come to visit you on my red beam like one
of Fingal's heroes, which, Ossianic as you are, I trow
you would readily dispense with. The cause was a cramp
in my stomach, which, after various painful visits, as if
it had been sent by Prospero, and had mistaken me for
Caliban, at length chose to conclude by setting fire to its
lodging, like the Frenchmen as they retreated through
Eussia, and placed me in as proper a state of inflamma-
tion as if I had had the whole Spafields committee in my
unfortunate stomach. Then bleeding and blistering was
the word; and they bled and blistered till they left me
neither skin nor blood. However, they beat off the foul
fiend, and I am bound to praise the bridge which carried
me over. I am still very totterish, and very giddy, kept
to panada, or rather to porridge, for I spurned at all
foreign slops, and adhered to our ancient oatmeal manu-
facture.¹ But I have no apprehension of any return of
the serious part of the malady, and I am now recovering
my strength, though looking somewhat cadaverous upon
the occasion.

I much approve of your going to Italy by sea; indeed
it is the only way you ought to think of it. I am only

¹ [On the 17th of March, Scott had written to Joanna Baillie: " Two
remarkables struck me in my illness: the first was, that my great wolf-dog
clamored wildly and fearfully about my bed when I was very ill, and would
hardly be got out of the room; the other, "that when I was recovering, all
acquired and factitious tastes seemed to leave me, and I could eat nothing
but porridge, and listen to no better reading than a stupid Scottish diary
which would have made a whole man sick."—Familiar Letters, vol. i.
p. 421.]



	18 iy ILLNESS 153 will rejoice me much, for the sound of the woods of Rokeby is lovely in mine ear. Ever yours, WALTER SCOTT. TO MBS. MACLEAN CLEPHA'NE, OF TOKLOISK, MTJIiIi. EDINBURGH, 23d March, 1817. MY DEAR MKS. AOT> Miss CLEPHANE, — Heje comes to let you know you had nearly seen the last sight of me, unless I had come to visit you on my red beam like one of Fingal's heroes, which, Ossianic as you are, I trow you would readily dispense with. The cause was a cramp in my stomach, which, after various painful visits, as if it had been sent by Prospero, and had mistaken me for Caliban, at length chose to conclude by setting fire to its lodging, like the Frenchmen as they retreated through Eussia, and placed me in as proper a state of inflamma- tion as if I had had the whole Spafields committee in my unfortunate stomach. Then bleeding and blistering was the word; and they bled and blistered till they left me neither skin nor blood. However, they beat off the foul fiend, and I am bound to praise the bridge which carried me over. I am still very totterish, and very giddy, kept to panada, or rather to porridge, for I spurned at all foreign slops, and adhered to our ancient oatmeal manu- facture.¹ But I have no apprehension of any return of the serious part of the malady, and I am now recovering my strength, though looking somewhat cadaverous upon the occasion. I much approve of your going to Italy by sea; indeed it is the only way you ought to think of it. I am only ¹ [On the 17th of March, Scott had written to Joanna Baillie: " Two remarkables struck me in my illness: the first was, that my great wolf-dog clamored wildly and fearfully about my bed when I was very ill, and would hardly be got out of the room; the other, "that when I was recovering, all acquired and factitious tastes seemed to leave me, and I could eat nothing but porridge, and listen to no better reading than a stupid Scottish diary which would have made a whole man sick."—Familiar Letters, vol. i. p. 421.]